'Of course. How much? Why do you make such a sputter about it?'
'I've been making a fool of myself—got into difficulties. Will you let me have fifty pounds?'
'Yes, if you'll promise to clear at once out of this dust-bin, and in a month or so come into Wales.'
'You're an awfully good fellow, Rolfe,—and I'm a damned fool. I promise! I will! I'll get out of it, and then I'll think about breaking with that girl. Better for both of us—but you shall advise me.— I'll tell you everything some day. I can't now. I'm too ashamed of myself.'
When he got home, Harvey wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and posted it at once.
Not many days after, there came to him a letter from Mrs. Frothingham. With this lady he had held no communication since the catastrophe of last November; knowing not how to address her without giving more pain than his sympathy could counterbalance, he remained silent. She wrote from the neighbourhood of Swiss Cottage, where she had taken a flat; it was her wish, if possible, to see him 'on a matter of business', and she requested that he would make an appointment. Much wondering in what business of Mrs. Frothingham's he could be concerned, Harvey named his time, and went to pay the call. He ascended many stairs, and was conducted by a neat servant-maid into a pleasant little drawing-room, where Mrs. Frothingham rose to receive him. She searched his face, as if to discern the feeling with which he regarded her, and her timid smile of reassurance did not lack its pathos.
'Mr. Rolfe, it seems years since I saw you.'
She was aged a little, and her voice fell in broken notes, an unhappy contrast to the gay, confident chirping of less than twelve months ago.
'I have only been settled here for a week. I thought of leaving London altogether, but, after all, I had to come backwards and forwards so often,—it was better to have a home here, and this little flat will just suit me, I think.'
She seemed desirous of drawing attention to its modest proportions.